Failure
by catchme21
Summary: A person needs to hit rock bottom before they can begin to climb. The exact depth and how far they fall is ultimately up to them. Dark fic, but not a death fic. Spoilers for S4. M for language and content.


So this struck me a little while ago, but like a few of the other girls here I was sort of getting depressed with seeing all of the dark fics out there now so I was hesitant to post. Unfortunately, this has also been following me around so I decided to just finish this one to get it out of my system. Plus you wouldn't believe how writing angsty like this can make you feel so much better yourself, it's almost like a therapy. :)

I warned it was a dark fic. Let's just say there's mentions of thoughts of suicide.

Un-beta'd, I sort of just threw this one up here on my own and it's sort of like jumping on stage nekkid.

* * *

Fallen doesn't even begin to describe it. Feels more like I've been thrown down, stomped on, and smeared across a sharp gravel pit. Now I know what dog shit feels like when people are trying to scrape it off the soles of their shoes.

Glancing up through hair that has been way overdo for a cut, I fixate at the bottle of whiskey tipped in front of me.

My how you've expanded my imagination, Old Jack. I imagine myself a bloody smear across the rocks and actually begin to chuckle.

Ruby stares at me, a look of confusion and worry crossing her face. I hate it when she does that. She thinks I've lost my mind. She eyes the bottle, sniffs once, but glances away. Good. The last time she tried to pry the bottle from my hand I had her halfway back to hell before she let go.

Little does she know I'm not drunk, at least not yet, give me time. In the past two months I've consumed enough alcohol to actually give me intolerance to the damn stuff so I have to put quite a bit away. Dean would be proud.

I take a swig of the bottle anyway, I like the way it burns. I like the way my eyes tear slightly and the way the liquid hits my empty stomach. Reminds me I'm alive, reminds me that I deserve to suffer.

Reminds me I'm a failure.

Ruby utters something and steps out. She does that, and I never pay any attention. Some part of me should feel bad. She apparently suffered at the hands of Lilith, climbed her way back out of hell, and came back to me. I know I'll never feel an ounce of guilt.

I killed that part of Sam Winchester two months ago when I buried my brother.

Reaching for the bottle again, I jump as a vibration sets off in my pocket. Fumbling for the small object, I wonder who the hell would be calling Dean's phone.

Yeah, I know, I kept it. Most of our contacts are stored in the stupid thing. Instead I threw mine out and kept his. If nothing else it's kept Bobby off my trail, he's never tried calling Dean's phone.

Bobby. Another twinge. Another screw up. He had tried to help, tried to keep me sane and grounded, tried to keep me alive. Instead I just walked away, pretty much simultaneously telling him to fuck off. Bobby didn't deserve it, but I don't deserve Bobby.

The call has gone to voicemail, and a small topless girl flashes across the screen. Rolling my eyes I recognize it as the picture that used to pop up when one of his one-night stands called. I haven't seen it since Dean…

Swallowing hard I open the phone. _Lisa_ flashes across the screen. Punching the code I listen as the machine welcomes me to the voicemail.

_"Hey Dean? It's Lisa. Well, I haven't heard from you in about three months, and you sounded kind of down the last time we talked. Look, I know you and your brother are busy, and I don't even want to know, but I was wondering if you'd-_

_Ben, honey, not now I'm on the phone._

_Anyway, I was wondering-_

_What? Okay. Dean, Ben wants to say something."_

I want to scream, break the phone in half and throw it across the room. Instead I'm going to listen. I'm kind of sadistic like that I guess.

_"Dean? It's Ben. When are you coming back this way? I just wanted to let you know that my birthday party this year is going to be bitchin'!"_

That actually gets a laugh out of me.

_"Ben! Sorry Dean. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Ben's party is-"_

I snap the phone closed. Enclosing the small plastic case in a fist, I bring it to my mouth as my throat works.

It's not fair. I know it's not. I knew it wasn't going to be the moment I joined back up with Dean after Jessica's death. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow. I stare at the phone. Lisa doesn't even know, Dean didn't even tell her. But then why would he? The kid wasn't even his.

But he had kept in contact with them. I had let it go, but seeing Dean's dream when Lisa had been sitting on that damn picnic blanket spouting those damn fantasies, I should have pressed harder. It was more than just a dream. He had hung onto her like a hope, like someday he might have gone back there even as his foot was poised on the thirteenth step – the top step – of the gallows.

The Jack suddenly spins in my stomach as I come to a decision. In a split second it all becomes crystal clear. I'm never going to get Dean back. Lilith is going to raise some demon army and the world is going to end consumed by hellfire.

I don't want to be here when it does. I've saved enough assholes in my life, let them fend for themselves now.

Besides, I'm about tearing my own head open in this fan-fucking-tastical training camp Ruby's enrolled me in.

Later, some will call me a coward. Some, or maybe no one, will spit my name in disgust. If I'm lucky I'll end up as a John Doe and they'll just bury me.

Rising on rubbery legs, I stumble to the car. My malnourished body and the large amount of alcohol I've consumed in the past three days threaten to drop me. I've got to do this. I can't do anything else.

The trunk opens with that fucking endless creak Dean's never been able to get rid of. Propping open the false bottom, I dig through the tangled weaponry until I find the right one.

Dean's nickle-plated Colt 1911 is heavy and cold in my hand, though the stifling July night makes it almost impossible to breathe.

I head back to the motel room, the one I broke into. Forget squatting and forget handing up the money. This shithole was empty anyway.

I snatch the bottle on the way by, and cradle it as I slide to the floor at the foot of the single bed. The puke green carpet is giving off some sort of moldy, pissed on smell, and it almost makes me gag. A thousand rotting, burning corpses at this point would be preferable to this stench.

Checking to make sure the weapon is loaded and the safety's off, I sit and toy with it for a bit.

The sleek pearl handle is slightly worn. There's a small black fuzzy stuck to a hairline fracture in the handle, and I can't help but wonder if it's from one of Dean's black t-shirts.

A tear rolls down my face as I grip the handle, pointing the weapon across the room. How many times had I seen this thing lead the way into a dark room, Dean's itchy finger hovering over the trigger?

Checking one more time to make sure the damn thing is loaded, I take another long pull from the bottle. Tossing it away, I barely notice as half the contents spill, but fail, to soak into the greasy carpet, instead resting on top like an oily puddle.

Well, it's now or never. Placing the gun firmly under my chin, I fit it snuggly in the hollow space beneath my tongue.

Goodbye cruel world.

_No one's even going to fucking miss you_, it whispers back.

Before I can change my mind, I pull the trigger. A deafening click echoes through the silent room, and it takes a second before I realize I'm still alive.

I once heard that the worst thing a suicidal person can do is fail at suicide. They were right, now I feel completely useless. I can't even kill myself.

I clear the weapon and my eyes settle on Dean's phone. Opening the small Samsung, I scroll through the contacts list until Lisa's name appears. Setting it very carefully on the carpet, I stand at my full height and lever the gun at until the 'is' of 'Lisa' is centered in the sights.

_Damn you for giving him what I never could…a dream of his own…_

Curling my finger around the trigger, I inhale, exhale slowly, and once all of the air is clear of my lungs I squeeze slowly until the gun goes off. The bullet shatters the phone and continues on into the carpet, burying itself into places unknown.

With a sigh, I glare at the fully-functioning Colt. Lowering myself, I sit cross-legged and lean back until I touch the greasy bedcover. I firmly plant the weapon under my chin, digging so hard it hurts. Tears of frustration and anger fill my eyes, and the world swims in front of me.

This can't be real. I knew my life was fucked before, how in the world can I be sitting here doing this? The pain of the hard floor below me and the sharpness of the weapon jammed underneath my jaw convince me that it is real.

I had died. Dean had saved me and been dragged to hell in my place. Here I was, going to die again. Dean wouldn't save me, just as I couldn't save him. Dean had died for nothing. The story of my life.

Before the numbness of my heart can spread to my fingers, I pull the trigger again. The _click_ as the hammer fails to fall echoes through the still room.

In a peak of what I can only describe as inhumane rage, I hurl the gun across the room. I don't hear it as it bounces across the floor. I only hear as it lands, and goes off. The shot runs wild, embedding itself somewhere in the bathroom, a tile judging by the _tink_. A dog begins to bark outside, and somewhere someone screams.

"Jesus, Sam." Long dark hair falls into view, and hands are gripping my arms, nails digging into my flesh.

"Le'mme alone Ruby," I mutter, barely able to get the thick words past my swollen tongue. "Thought you dinnet believe in Jeezus."

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"That would imply," I reply, letting my head roll on my neck so my eyes can rest on her stolen face. "That I can actually succeed at something."

Ruby sneers in disgust and releases me, rising to her feet. "I swear you're not even worth it sometimes. Why the hell am I not scraping your brains off the wall?"

The answer hits me all at once. "Cause his gun don't jam."

Ruby eyes the bottle, then lets her furious stare slide back to me. "How 'bout we try this again when you're sober?"

"You don't get it? It's like his last fucking twisted joke. He always had to be the one to save me. The last time some lowlife tried to kill me with Dean's gun, it jammed. Well here we are again. The gun is in perfect working order, yet when I try to blow my brains out, it jams."

"I realize you're in a dark place right now, Sam, but we need-"

"You don't need jack shit." I'm _done_, with everything. "I don't need you to Dr. Phil me right now. What I need, is for you to not dangle this over my head. I'm still alive, still here, that's all that should matter to you. No psycho-babble bullshit."

Ruby simply nods, but stays uncharacteristically quiet.

I lower my eyes, at least she knows I'm serious. "We're going to continue training, and maybe one day I'll try this again. Maybe not. But you don't get to say a fucking word."

Ruby nods again, frowns, but retreats to the other side of the room. I pick up the bottle of whisky, but suddenly I can't bring myself to drink it. Once again, Dean saved me even though his soul was rotting in hell. He's in hell because I'm alive.

I owe him more. I probably won't try the attempt again, the _click_ still echoes in my mind, it's something I'll hear forever. It was stupid of me, foolish and selfish. Dean is depending on me, and again I almost let him down.

Failure. Pure and simple.

With a sigh I drop the bottle into the small metal trashcan. Rising unsteadily to my feet, I sway towards Ruby.

"So tell me about my next target."

* * *

Thanks for reading, I hope I didn't dive too deeply.

I got the information for Dean's gun from http://www(dot)freewebs(dot)com/spnweapons/guns1(dot)html. It's got some fun information on their weapons if you're interested.

Have a Happy New Year. :)

Kris


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